


Papa Treville

by 29Pieces



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos has no tolerance for bullshit, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, His boys love Treville, Lonely Porthos, Paternal Treville, Sad Aramis | René d'Herblay, Team as Family, Treville is my hero, Treville loves his boys, Young Aramis, Young Athos, Young Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/29Pieces/pseuds/29Pieces
Summary: Not everyone is born to a great father. But sometimes you find someone even better. The musketeers reflect on their own fathers, both blood and otherwise. File under: Treville is a wonderful man who makes sure each of his boys knows they're valued exactly as they are.





	Papa Treville

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Father's Day to all who observe it! And to those of you who don't, because maybe your biological sperm provider isn't the sort of person who should be celebrated, here's to you. Don't. Don't celebrate what doesn't deserve it. Don't be told that you have to love someone just because they're family. Don't feel like you owe them anything. And you don't deserve to feel guilty for any of that. Here's a reminder that some amazing people (three in particular at the moment) also had crappy dads but have an amazing family and were lucky enough to find a surrogate who never thought he'd find himself with a passel of unruly sons who drive him mad and adore him to pieces. ^_^
> 
> Historical note: Father's Day goes back to reeeeeally old days, but for a very long time the Catholic Church observed fathers on the Feast day of St Joseph, being the patron saint of fathers and the surrogate father of Jesus. Since his feast day is on March 19, and NOT the 3rd Sunday of June which is the current Father's Day in lots of places, this fic is technically taking place in March.

"He couldn't have gone far, right? I mean, this is Aramis."

Aramis tilted his head slightly at the sound of his name, but didn't otherwise move from his seat, nor did he tear his gaze away from the cup in front of him. The wine had left him slightly muddled, though not as much as he was hoping it would once he was left alone to seek its company a little longer.

"Yeah, ain't it more likely he's busy in a woman's bed?"

"No."

Athos's voice was calm but also pointed, and Aramis sighed internally as he realized he'd been spotted. Still, he didn't look up at his three friends as they crossed the mostly quiet tavern and helped themselves to the seats beside him.

"Little early, innit?" Porthos asked, reaching out to inspect the bottle Aramis was pouring out of. "Ain't this Athos's job?"

"As though you never indulge," Aramis shot back, a tad bit more defensively than he'd intended. He waited for a sharp retort, but Porthos only shook his head.

"Yeah, maybe. Not usually at ten in the mornin', though."

"You missed muster," Athos pointed out. "Treville sent us to make sure you hadn't found yourself in any trouble."

Aramis lifted a shoulder in response. "As you can see, all is well. How I spend a Sunday morning is my own business."

"True," d'Artagnan agreed as he pulled the cup away from Aramis, who tried to snatch it back and clumsily failed "But it's Wednesday."

So it was. Aramis gave the lad a baleful glower for having reminded him of the fact. "You may all tell Treville I shall be there shortly to make my apologies, then." He made as if to stand, rather more off-balance than usual, but Athos was quick to take his shoulder and urge him back down.

"That won't be necessary," he assured Aramis. "He has a job for us later tonight and insists we take the morning as we see fit."

"Which gives you plenty o' time to sober up an' tell us what's botherin' you," Porthos suggested. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, ignoring the sidelong grimace from Aramis. Likewise, the other two fell silent and watched him as in clear anticipation of a response.

Aramis sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. It wasn't a dire secret, after all. "It's St. Joseph's day," he finally admitted.

From the corner of his eye, he saw d'Artagnan flick a flabbergasted look to Porthos, who shrugged.

"I- I don't follow," d'Artagnan admitted.

Aramis huffed in impatience, prepared to explain, but Athos beat him to it.

"St. Joseph,  _Nutritor Domini_. Nourisher of the Lord. A symbol of fatherhood, and therefore the day when the Church celebrates fathers."

With a raised brow, Aramis stared at Athos until the swordsman wryly lifted one corner of his mouth. "My parents did insist I have an education, after all. I know the feast days, whether I observe them or not."

His expression also held a warning, though, one that even Aramis halfway to being drunk could read. But Athos need not fear; though the notion of fatherhood was emotional for Aramis due to certain recent events, there were other reasons than that for his dislike for this particular day. Older reasons.

"My father and I," he said slowly in response to the still perplexed look d'Artagnan was giving him. "We were not close. By the time he took me to live with him, I had long since given up the idea that we ever could be. In fact, I believe I was nothing but a burden to him."

D'Artagnan, always so earnest and in so many ways naïve, only frowned deeper. "I'm sure that's not so, Aramis. He's your  _father_. Why would you think that?"

Aramis finally snagged his cup back from d'Artagnan and lifted it to his lips as Porthos and Athos exchanged a look. He hesitated before drinking, and quietly said, "Because he told me so."

.o.O.o.

Aramis held the thin tree branch like a musket, lying prone in the dirt outside the chateau. He pulled it in tight against his shoulder to brace it, gazing down the imagined barrel to one of the bushes lining the courtyard—definitely an enemy. The shrub shifted slightly thanks to the tankard of brandy he'd stolen from one of the barrels in the cellar not an hour before. Aramis's thirteen-year-old self hadn't developed much of a tolerance for the potent drink as of yet.

Aramis closed one eye to try and steady the spinning of the earth. The shrub was, what, fifty yards? He could make that shot. He set his finger to an imaginary trigger, preparing to pull.

"Aramis!" a voice snapped, making him jump and shattering the make-believe. Someone's hand grabbed him by the arm, hauling him up off the dusty ground and yanking the branch away. "You've been in the brandy again. How many times have I told you you're not to be down there?"

The displeased countenance of his father glowered down at him, and Aramis looked away. Perhaps this place was cleaner than the brothel, more "reputable", and yet it would never be home.

" _No sé por qué te importa,_ " Aramis muttered.

"French, boy. If this is what I have to look forward to…"

" _Si no querías un hijo, deberías haberme dejado donde estaba._ "

A hand smacked his face, not hard so much as stern, as unfeeling as stone. "Yes, perhaps I  _should_ have left you there. Believe me, it was not my idea, only my duty. And had I known what a burden you were going to be, I should have certainly thought twice before agreeing to it."

Aramis's eyes grew damp at the words, heart pounding with yearning to see his mother again; to hear kind words of love instead of disappointment.

With another snort, Aramis started to grumble, " _Deseo que_ -"

" _French_! In this house, we are French, and I will not remind you again."

.o.O.o.

"I understand," Athos said—not as though he felt sorry for Aramis, but as though he knew what he meant. Athos plucked the cup back away from Aramis but only to take a long draught of it himself. "You are not the only son to disappoint his father, my friend."

Porthos snorted in disbelief and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. "You, Athos? Can't imagine you disappointin' anyone."

"No," d'Artagnan agreed. "I always imagined you were one of those disgustingly perfect children…"

"Oh, I was," Athos deadpanned. "Disgustingly. A pity that Thomas was more so."

.o.O.o.

Athos—or rather, Olivier, as the lad was properly named—took another placid sip of soup, mindful not to slurp. Not that anyone would hear or notice if he did, which was both a relief and a trial. On the one hand, having such a large dinner party meant he stood a better chance of escaping the need to engage in the inane conversation going on around him, as his neighbors at the table had plenty of others they could gossip with instead. On the other hand, he was surrounded and there was no escape.

The young man took another bite, aghast that they had only reached the soup course, the third of twelve courses for the evening. What he would give to have the mignardise announced next to end his suffering…

A few seats down, Thomas had all the ladies in his vicinity laughing appreciatively at whatever tale he was regaling them with.

Olivier loved his brother, he did, and thankfully Thomas's ebullience meant he was the one the dinner guests preferred to pay attention to. Unfortunately, it also made him quite equal to some of the other nobles in sounding daft and ridiculous.

"But if you don't believe me," Thomas concluded with a broad laugh. "Ask Olivier, he was there, too!"

Damn. Why had Thomas felt the need to point that out? All eyes turned his direction, as Olivier carefully set his soup spoon down and dabbed at his mouth with the cloth napkin.

"Yes," he said simply. "It is true." And he left it at that. Picking up the spoon, he resumed eating; the other guests watched him expectantly in gleeful hopes of more humorous anecdotes perhaps, but truly it was a banal story at best. He wasn't interested in entertaining them further, even if he was skirting the line of poor manners.

At the head of the table, the Comte laughed and raised his cup, having already finished a multitude of them. "You must forgive Olivier," he snorted. "He is quite the bore. Now why can't you be more like Thomas, eh, Olivier? Now _there's_ a young man with wit and good humor. I rather favor him."

So he had often heard. Not that he would hold such things against Thomas himself, and yet it was tiring to be reminded with such… frequency.

"I too lament that such good character inhabits no other men of this family," he remarked.

His father frowned, trying to parse through the remark, while Thomas bit back a laugh. Olivier returned his attention to his soup.

.o.O.o.

"Least he wasn't in the habit of dumpin' you an' your mother in favor of 'is lands and 'good name'," Porthos pointed out, taking the cup next. He took a swig, then set it down with a sigh. "He was wrong for what 'e said, Athos."

"Your name is Olivier?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise.

"You didn't really think 'Athos' was his given name, did you?" Aramis snorted before grabbing his cup back. He raised it high. "Here's to shitty fathers." They'd already drank most of it for him, so Aramis drained the cup and poured some more. "Though I must admit, if it were a contest-"

"Which it is not," Athos interrupted.

"-then Porthos would win."

"Yeah, maybe," Porthos said with a shrug. "But at least I didn't have t' grow up knowin' how bad he was, like you two." He grew quiet, looking down. Finally, he finished, "Not that I didn't ask."

.o.O.o.

"But why not?"

"Porthos," his mother said with a sigh. "Please, child. Put it from your mind."

"But who was 'e?" Porthos persisted, clambering over his mother's back and wrapping his arms around her in a tight hug. He burrowed his dark curls into hers and declared against her neck, "I know I gotta have a father. Everyone else does. Jus' makes sense. Maybe he'll try an' find us."

There was a sadness in his mother's eyes when he swung back down to sit in front of her, only barely outshining the sickness that lay beneath. It was an expression Porthos saw in most all the women in the Court. Everyone was sad. Everyone was sick.

But if he had a father—and he  _must_ have a father, because Charon said that people couldn't  _happen_ unless they had a father—then maybe he would come and take Porthos and his mother away from this place and she would get better.

"Listen, child," his mother said softly, cupping his chin tenderly. "Your father is not coming for us. You must forget him. What's done and gone can't put food in your mouth. Think only of now."

"But don't you think he'd love me?"

His mother squeezed her eyes shut, face suddenly spasming in pain, and Porthos immediately felt bad. He hadn't meant to hurt her. "I'm sorry, mama."

She shook her head and took a deep breath. "In this world, Porthos, you will find that love is not easy to come by. There is a difference between the people who share your blood, and your family. Your family are the people who care about you. And yes, child, your family will love you. How could they not? Your father will never come for you, but I pray that you find your family."

.o.O.o.

Solemn, almost reverent silence followed Porthos's tale. Aramis considered the words, but it was d'Artagnan who broke the stillness.

"Your mother was a wise woman. And it sounds like her prayer was answered."

Porthos sniffed slightly, but quickly grinned and clapped Athos on the shoulder. "Yeah," he agreed. "Got me three brothers, vexin' though they may be."

"You're one to talk," Aramis pointed out. He paused. "I'm just sorry you couldn't have found your father was someone worthy of you."

"But didn't he?" d'Artagnan piped up again. The others turned to look at him and the lad raised his eyebrows. "I  _was_ close to my father." His voice grew soft, nearly tremulous, and his eyes distant. "Losing him was the worst thing that's ever happened to me. And nothing can replace him, but…"

.o.O.o.

D'Artagnan carefully brushed his horse, whispering into her ear to soothe both the mare and himself. He hated leaving her here all the time, though she would be much more comfortable here at the garrison than hanging out in front of the Bonacieux household all night. And since he was here every day anyway, it wasn't like he'd abandoned the loyal girl.

Besides, it gave him something to do when his three new friends were out on important business that he wasn't privy to yet, not being a real musketeer. Being near the horses reminded him of home, of his father. It kept him calm when too much emotion wanted to burst out of him at anything he came across.

"D'Artagnan. I thought I might find you here."

He turned, stiffly falling into some variation of standing at attention in the presence of Captain Treville. Even after nearly a month, d'Artagnan couldn't quite get used to Treville; he'd met intimidating men before, but they were always the self-important type, not the ones who simply exuded the virtue of being a great man.

Treville didn't smirk at his failed attempt to look like a soldier, merely nodded. "At ease. You know we do have a stableboy who can do that for you."

"I know, I just… want to do it myself." He patted his horse fondly. "She's been good to me. I'll be good to her."

Treville smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. "You have a gift for horses, I've noticed."

Trying to keep the surprise off his face that Treville would have noticed anything about him when they barely interacted, d'Artagnan smiled. "Farmboy, sir."

"Indeed. In fact, that's why I was looking for you."

D'Artagnan frowned. "Sir?"

"My horse, Guerrière." The captain nodded down the row of stalls to a spirited black mare who nickered at the sound of her name. "She gets restless when not exercised. I'm afraid I simply don't have the time to give her the necessary attention. I was hoping you might do me the favor, when you can be spared."

Mouth falling open, d'Artagnan couldn't help but glance around. "Me?"

"For the short term. Once you receive your commission, of course, you'll likely be with Athos and the others too often."

Between the unprecedented honor of being asked to personally care for  _Captain Treville's_ horse, the offhanded confidence that d'Artagnan would one day be a commissioned musketeer, and the inherent reassurance that he would be woven into the fold he'd already unofficially found himself in, d'Artagnan found himself at a loss for words. How had Treville known that these were exactly the things he'd needed to hear in that moment?

And cared enough to make sure he heard them?

.o.O.o.

"Aramis. My office."

Aramis looked up from the training yard to see Treville giving him a sharp nod before disappearing. He lowered his sword, trading looks with a grinning Porthos.

"What've you done now?" Porthos asked gleefully, sheathing his own sword now that the sparring match had been cut short. "Shall I find Athos, start figurin' out an alibi for you?"

"I haven't done anything… that I can recall," Aramis retorted, though he didn't bite back the conspiratorial smile to return Porthos's own. No sense pondering the matter overly long. The marksman hurried up the stairs and slipped into the captain's office.

"You are of Spanish heritage, are you not?" Treville asked without preamble before Aramis's hand was even off the doorknob.

Aramis paused. This was not where he'd expected the conversation to begin. He wasn't sure where it was going, either, and he suddenly found himself feeling oddly self-conscious. Aramis couldn't recall having ever shared the fact with anyone at the garrison.

"Yes, sir… on my mother's side."

"And you speak Spanish well, I imagine."

Again, Aramis found himself hesitating. But the captain was watching him, and this was  _Treville_ , and Aramis couldn't lie to the man.

" _Con fluidez._ "

"Excellent."

Excellent? Usually speaking the foreign language brought him reprimands or suspicious looks, but Treville seemed pleased.

"Sir?"

"There is a Spanish agent en route to France with sensitive news for the King, but I'm told he's highly suspicious of everything French. His Majesty is afraid the agent will change his mind and turn back. The Cardinal suggested sending an escort who speaks the language to put him at ease, but it seems none of the palace guard are fluent and I fear that would only make it worse. I told him I had the only man for the job. And so, it appears, I have. There is no one I would trust more for this." Treville stood, drawing even with Aramis. "Take Athos and Porthos. You leave immediately."

"Yes, sir," Aramis automatically replied, head still spinning. He turned to go, but paused when Treville spoke up again.

"Aramis. We are fortunate to have you."

Well. Aramis swallowed back a well of emotions, nodding in salute and hurrying from the room.

.o.O.o.

The courtyard below was boisterous with reveling musketeers ringing in the new year with their typical poise and solemnity—or lack thereof. Porthos and Aramis were, naturally, at the height of the rowdiness. It was all a bit much for Athos, though he watched from a place by the railing with a smile.

"You needn't keep me company, you know," Treville mentioned, refilling Athos's cup and pouring another for himself. He balanced the bottle on the railing and raised his cup towards the swordsman. "Compared to them, I'm rather a bore."

"Compared to them,  _everyone_ is a bore," Athos returned. He raised his cup in response and they both drank. For a long moment, they remained quiet, watching over the party taking place down below. Athos found the good-hearted revelry was much easier to deal with than the vapid parties he remembered as a young man. Perhaps it was just that these men were higher in his esteem in all other aspects.

"As long as you're here," Treville finally spoke again, "it happens I do have something to discuss with you."

"Oh?" Athos turned his attention more fully towards his captain, who nodded curtly.

"There is a matter I must attend to of a personal nature. It may require some time away from the garrison. Perhaps a few weeks or more."

Athos waited, not asking for the details. If Treville were interested in sharing them, he would. It was none of Athos's business.

"I need you to act in my stead while I'm away," the captain went on. "You'll be in command. They're all good men, but you're the obvious choice."

Treville turned to Athos, one corner of his mouth rising as the swordsman blinked—the only outward sign of his surprise.

"Of course," Athos finally remembered to say. "Yes, of course. I'll do my best."

"I know you will. I have no reservations in leaving them in your capable hands."

Treville looked back down at the courtyard and shook his head. "Porthos and Aramis are excellent soldiers, some of the best. On their own, they're formidable. But with your calm to temper their impulsiveness, the three of you are truly unstoppable."

Treville drank again, but Athos found himself staring at his captain with shock. No one had ever put it like that before, nor had he particularly considered it. They did fit together like three sides of a pyramid, complementing each other perfectly in spite of their differences of character. Athos felt his face loosening into a small smile.

Treville suddenly sighed, watching Porthos drunkenly wave a pistol at Aramis's head, where a melon was precariously balanced. "I should probably stop them."

"You probably should."

"More wine?"

"Please."

.o.O.o.

"You wanted t' see me, sir?"

"Porthos, come in."

Porthos warily closed the door behind him, stepping forward as Treville rose from his desk and walked around to lean against the edge.

"Listen, if this is about th' fight-"

"I don't know about any fights. And if I did, then I would say you weren't the one who started it. Only that you finished it."

Porthos clenched his jaw. It had only taken a week since joining the musketeers, but he'd  _almost_ finally gotten used to the looks he got. It was nothing new. Porthos looked different from anyone else in the garrison, and he was accustomed to that.

He'd just thought that in a group of their reputation, such common prejudices would have no place. And he was mostly right; only one or two had been interested in causing problems, but even among the others Porthos felt the difference between being left alone and being accepted. Sometimes Porthos missed Charon and Flea so fiercely that he almost regretted leaving the Court of Miracles. They were the last friends he'd really had.

"The reason I needed to see you is that you've excelled at all the tasks I've set you to," Treville explained bluntly, taking Porthos off-guard. "Your determination and skill is commendable. You're ready for an assignment."

"Thank you, sir," Porthos mumbled, ducking his head at the unexpected praise.

"I'm sending you to Bordeaux with Aramis."

"Does 'e know that?" Porthos asked before he could stop himself. Whoever this Aramis was, he might not want someone like Porthos foisted on him; and after the recent "disagreement" with another of the men, Porthos wasn't in the mood to deal with more of it.

To Treville's credit, the man didn't even blink. "Not yet. He only just returned from Poitou. You leave in the morning, so you'll want to be well rested." The captain's mouth twitched. "Aramis has… a knack for trouble. But he's one of the best. You'll get on well together."

There weren't many men that Porthos instinctively trusted with barely a reason why, but Treville was one of them, so he nodded.

Expression softening, Treville straightened, clasping Porthos's shoulder. "Porthos… you've been given every opportunity to fail. But you haven't. I can already tell you're going to be a credit to this regiment as a musketeer and as a man. And anyone who bothers to take a second look would say the same."

Porthos smiled gratefully, exhaling a soft laugh. "Thank you, sir," he murmured again. "Hopefully Aramis will be one o' those, then."

Treville's eyes sparked with sudden amusement. "Aramis won't need a second look. Just… don't let him talk you into anything reckless."

"…Such as?"

"Basically anything that comes out of his head. Good luck."

Well, this was bound to be interesting. Porthos found himself looking forward to meeting this Aramis. The fact that Treville was trying to find someone who would work well with him didn't go unnoticed, but neither did it go unappreciated. In fact, Porthos felt a rush of gratitude to the older man who had taken such an interest in him when nobody else had.

And Porthos would do everything in his power to not let him down.

.o.O.o.

"You know," Aramis said thoughtfully, tipping the wine bottle over to fill all four cups that were now on the table. "Treville would make an excellent father."

"Think 'e ever considered it?" asked Porthos with a smirk. "Captain Treville, bouncin' a baby on his knee?"

The four shared an amused chuckle at the image, but it was Athos who shook his head.

"I think he already has more sons than he knows what to do with."

Aramis sat back, smiling reminiscently of all the times Treville had encouraged or lectured them, rolled his eyes or barked orders, sent them off in frustration or came blazing to their aid with sword drawn. The man who pushed them harder and taught them more than anyone else ever had. The one who disciplined and cajoled as much as guided and respected. A man who did not demand their respect, but commanded it. A man who earned it.

Aramis had come in to the tavern to try and deal with all the weight that came with being a disappointment to a disappointing father. But it had taken his brothers to remind him that he had a family of his own regardless. And the family that had chosen each other was worth so much more.

Aramis raised his cup. "To Papa Treville," he quipped.

The others grinned.

"Papa Treville!"

And they drank.


End file.
